


Tattoo

by biblionerd07



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Emotional Constipation, Gen, hungover Bass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass got the tattoo when he was really, really drunk.  Without Miles.  And emotional.  And drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I doing this? Why am I unable to keep my Miloe feels under control? Why am I writing so much fic lately? I know not, but I suspect it has something to do with David Lyons and his stupid face.

It happened when Bass was really, really drunk. Without Miles. The “without Miles” part was what brought it on, really. He’d gone most of his life without getting drunk without Miles, but he’d been “given” (ordered to take) mandatory leave after his family…well. Suddenly he wanted his natural state to be drunk and he couldn’t help that Miles wasn’t there.

The problem was getting drunk without Miles was dangerous. Bass had a tendency to get “really great ideas” when he was drunk. (The ideas were terrible.) And Miles always made sure Bass didn’t follow through with these ideas. (Except when Miles was doing it, too.) If Bass was drunk alone, he got emotional. (Weepy, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone but Miles, who already knew, because sometimes Bass got weepy even when Miles was there.) So he had to turn to his other, not-Miles friends in his time of need. (His other friends sucked.)

Rather than talking Bass down from his terrible ideas, his not-Miles friends encouraged him to follow through with them, even thought up some stupid ideas of their own and dared him. And they didn’t even join him, just watched him and laughed. He got in multiple fights, and they didn’t jump into the fray with him or pull him away. He unknowingly went home with a hooker. A video of him dancing—and stripping—on the bar had ended up on YouTube.

If Miles had been there, Bass would not have danced on the bar. If they were drinking at home or at someone’s house, he’d allow Bass to dance, even to strip, and he’d take the one—and only, because he’d stare everyone else down—video, on Bass’s own phone, so that Bass got to control what happened to the video. Even when he was drunk, Miles remembered these things. It was the same way Bass could keep track of how drunk Miles was and when Miles needed to stop before he got too far into his own self-loathing, even if Bass was three sheets to the wind himself. Too drunk to take care of yourself somehow never extended into too drunk to take care of your best friend with the two of them.

But Miles was on base, and Bass was on leave, and Bass couldn’t handle being sober, so he went out with some old buddies who did not take care of him, and Bass wound up with a tattoo. He couldn’t honestly say he’d never thought about it before, but he’d thought about it in the abstract—someday maybe he’d get a tattoo. After all, it was a supremely military thing to do. He’d just never _really_ thought to do it.

Until he was really, really drunk. Without Miles.

And since he’d gotten a head-start on drinking before he went out with his crappy friends, Bass was emotional. He’d been drinking alone for a while before going out with his buddies, meaning he’d been thinking too much, thinking morbid thoughts and feeling sorry for himself. And he hadn’t seen Miles for eight days straight, because Miles kept accidentally pissing off the CO and couldn’t get off base. Eight days isn’t really that long without seeing someone, except when it’s your best friend and you haven’t been apart that long in probably two decades, and every member of your family just died, and he recently pulled a gun out of your hands before you put it in your mouth.

So there was that.

When Bass woke up the next morning in the apartment a few miles from base he and Miles rented for when they got leave, his forearm was throbbing. It was pressed against the mattress, because Bass had passed out on his stomach, pillowing his head on his arms. He wanted to scream. It felt like the time he and Miles had spent an entire July day at the beach playing shipwreck when they were nine and Bass, so fair and blond, had ended up with sunburns so bad they’d blistered. Miles had just freckled and Bass had felt actual hatred toward him for it.

He groaned, his head pounding, the sun streaming through his window (with no blinds or curtains, because why bother when he was rarely there?) making him wince and curse. He had the worst cotton-mouth in the world and he knew for a fact he hadn’t brushed his teeth last night. Even when he was drunk, Bass was usually meticulous about his oral hygiene. He thought longingly of the way he and Miles always put water, Gatorade, and aspirin within reach of their beds before they went out drinking, because Miles was a Boy Scout (no, actually, he’d never done Boy Scouts) who was always prepared. He raised his forearm with a little whine and looked. There was a piece of gauze taped there.  
  
What the hell had happened last night? He knew he’d gone out with some of the guys he’d known in boot camp who were out of the Marines now. He sort of remembered chatting up a pretty brunette, but he was alone, so either he’d struck out or she’d…what? She’d stabbed him, cleaned his wound, and left? He took stock of the rest of him and knew that despite his being completely and 100% naked, he certainly hadn’t gotten laid last night. The other side of the bed wasn’t even turned down, meaning he’d been _really_ out and hadn’t moved all night. He peeled at the tape over the gauze, muttering in irritation when it pulled at his arm hair. He didn’t have Chewbacca arms like Miles, but he wasn’t like that weirdo in their unit who shaved his arms.

When Bass finally got the tape and gauze off, he just stared stupidly for a minute. There was his and Miles’s M they’d designed when they were—what—ten? For some reason the fog in his brain didn’t allow him to put together the pieces and he actually tried to rub it away, thinking it was just marker like they’d used to do, to their mothers’ constant irritation.

He howled when he touched his skin, and the pain cut through his idiocy to reveal his _previous_ idiocy. He’d gone out, gotten wasted, and gotten a tattoo. And it wasn’t just any tattoo—he’d gotten the M tattooed onto his arm.

“Are you serious?” Bass asked himself out loud. Sometimes he liked to talk to himself out loud. It wasn’t a big deal. How was he going to explain this to Miles? “Hey, man, no homo or whatever, but remember that brand we made when we were kids to symbolize we’d always be together? Yeah, I got it tattooed on my arm.”

It was humiliating. Bass had always been the more emotional and far more needy of the pair, but this was just weird. This was like getting a girlfriend’s name tattooed on his ass. He had never even _thought_ about doing that, even when he was Really In Love and also really, really drunk (such a dangerous combination), and yet here was. Why didn’t he just ask Miles for his class ring or his letterman’s jacket or some other totally cliché chick shit?

Bass couldn’t take how thirsty he was anymore, so he forced himself out of bed, not caring that anyone could be staring through the window at his bare ass. “You’re welcome.” He muttered to the unidentified peeping Tom. Bass was not in any way, shape, or form self-conscious or modest. He’d been born naked and hadn’t really ever looked back. Even with his little sisters around, he’d done a considerable amount of walking around in just his underwear. Everyone in his family did. It wasn’t unusual to walk into his house and find one of his sisters in a tank-top and underwear and nothing else. Maybe that was weird. He didn’t know.

He took a shower and a little bit wanted to die when the water hit his arm, but he could mostly avoid the pain by not letting the water touch the spot. There was literally nothing in the fridge besides a single, shriveled grape. Bass left it in there, because it was _absolutely_ from Miles last time they’d been on leave and therefore Miles had to deal with it.

Bass didn’t know what to do with himself. Waking up with a tattoo had quelled his desire to drink for a little while, and his hangover was keeping him from being hungry. He turned on the TV and flipped through some channels listlessly. He didn’t even know what shows were on these days. He turned off the TV. He stood in front of his bookshelf, willing a title to jump out at him, but he wasn’t in the mood. He thought about going for a run, even though he’d just showered, but moving his head made the world spin way too fast. He wandered through the apartment. He cracked open Miles’s bedroom door. He shut it quickly. Miles must have left something in the trash in there because it smelled like something had actually died. He opened it again and grabbed the trash can, gagging at the sight and smell of the fuzzy remains of a peach.

Bass had just gone back to the TV, thinking maybe there’d be a movie on or something, when he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. His eyes widened and he looked down at his arm. He fled, making it into his room before Miles got the door open.

“Bass?” Miles called. Bass yanked his dresser open, searching for a long-sleeved shirt.

“Hey, Miles.” He yelled back.

“Are you in your room?” Miles’s voice was getting closer but Bass’s best efforts to extract the shirt he’d found were mostly in vain.

“Um, yeah.” He was panicking a little. “Uh, don’t come in!”

“What?” Miles was right outside the door. He managed to pull the shirt free from whatever demon was hiding in the drawer.

“Don’t come in! I—I’m naked!”

There was a pause. “Bass, I’ve probably seen you naked more than I’ve seen you with clothes on.” Miles pointed out, sounding confused. Bass heard him put his hand on the doorknob. Only Bass’s head was through the shirt, because he seemed to be having trouble getting his arms to find the sleeves.

“I’m—I’m jacking off!” Bass yelled in desperation.

There was another pause. “No, you’re not. I know what you sound like when you do that, too, you know. Bass, what’s going on?” Miles sounded concerned now, and Bass realized Miles probably thought he was slitting his wrists or something. Miles didn’t wait for an explanation, just opened the door to find Bass with a shirt over his head, his arms still frantically searching for the sleeves. Miles stared at him like he was crazy.

“Uh…whatcha doing, buddy?”  
  
“I’m just trying to put a goddamn shirt on, Miles.” Bass snapped. The _you’re-crazy_ look intensified.

“Yeah, um…is there a reason you’re trying to do it so fast? Or, you know, why you didn’t want me to see you doing it?” Miles stepped closer. “Or why you’re putting on a shirt even though you’re already wearing one?”

“Cold.” Bass said, huffing out a breath. He’d given up on getting his arms into the sleeves, but he left the shirt over his head because he needed to pin his arm to his side so Miles wouldn’t see.

“You’re cold.” Miles said flatly. Bass fought a grimace. Bass only got cold if he was outside in the snow. Here, inside, on a sunny spring day, he was burning up, as he always was. Bass had a naturally high body temperature—it was part of why he always walked around naked—and Miles, of course, knew all this.

“I…” Bass had no idea what to say. But, to his surprise, Miles’s face twisted into concern and he came over to Bass.

“Are you sick?” Miles asked. “Probably from all the stress. Come here.” He put a hand to Bass’s forehead to feel for a fever. He frowned. “Well, you’re hot, but you always are.”

“Miles, you really think now’s the time to reveal your true feelings for me?” Bass joked weakly, trying to subtly shift a little to turn his arm away from Miles. But of course Miles caught the movement, and he narrowed his eyes.

“Something wrong with your arm?” He asked. _Shitshitshit._

“Nope. Regular ol’ arm. Just my arm.” Bass babbled. He could lie sort of smoothly most of the time, but never to Miles. Miles grabbed his wrist. “Don’t—!”

Too late. Miles stared at the M and then back up at Bass. “Did you get a tattoo?” He asked incredulously.

“Um…” Bass was actually _blushing_. He could feel heat raging across his face. This was the most embarrassing moment of his life, he was sure. Gerald Anderson had _pantsed_ him in front of the whole high school cheerleading squad in the eighth grade, and this was actually worse. Bass had never been embarrassed with Miles before. Miles had seen him get embarrassed about something, in front of other people, and Miles had talked him down from a proverbial humiliation ledge plenty of times before, but they’d never been embarrassed by something that had happened with just the two of them, not even when Miles wet the bed during a sleepover once or when Bass had woken with morning wood during puberty. (That stopped being embarrassing quickly, once it started happening to Miles, too, and Ben told them they were in for it for pretty much the rest of their lives.)

“Bass…” Miles was finally recognizing what he was seeing, and Bass wrenched his arm away.

“I was really, really drunk last night.” He said by way of explanation. Miles tilted his head.

“Who were you with?” He asked.

“Um, some of the boot camp guys.”

“Which ones?” Miles had a look on his face Bass couldn’t quite read. It was almost anger, but not quite, which was strange. Miles didn’t really do mild anger. He was either not mad or super pissed.

“Dawson. Jenkins. Lewiston.” Bass honestly couldn’t even remember if those three guys had been there. They were the crew he’d been drinking with the past few days while Miles was gone, so he was pretty sure, but he wouldn’t have sworn it in court.

“Ugh, Jenkins?” Miles said, disgusted. They hated Jenkins. Miles hated Jenkins because he was an arrogant prick. Bass hated him because Miles hated him. In all honesty, Bass thought he was kind of funny, and he’d pointed out to Miles more than once that Bass himself was kind of an arrogant prick but Miles kept him around, to which Miles always replied he didn’t have patience for more than one and Bass had been there first.

“Well, I had to drink with someone.” Bass shrugged, trying not to sound accusatory. Miles pissing off the CO was kind of unusual—Miles was a good soldier who followed the rules. He didn’t usually get in trouble without Bass there to start it, unless it involved a fight. And for eight days straight? It wasn’t that Bass thought Miles was lying; it was just...strange.

Miles glared and Bass realized he hadn’t been as subtle with the accusation as he’d thought. “I wasn’t trying to piss him off, you know.”

“I know. But you know I can’t drink alone too many nights in a row.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking at all so many nights in a row.” Miles countered, drawing a snort from Bass. Being a Marine was pretty much the only thing keeping Miles’s liver functioning. If he could, he’d drink himself into oblivion every single night of his life instead of just every single night of leave.

“Look who’s talking.” Bass muttered, finally pulling the extra shirt off, turning away from Miles to chuck it onto his bed.

“Bass…” Miles sighed. Trailing off and sighing meant Miles was having feelings. Miles didn’t like having feelings, and he certainly didn’t like admitting he was having feelings.

“I know, Miles.” Bass said with a sigh of his own. “I’m not dealing with my problems and eventually it’ll be worse if I keep drinking to erase the pain and running away won’t change what happened. Right?” He was repeating what the mandatory shrink had told him.

Miles bit the inside of his cheek. “Something like that.” He said. They didn’t look at each other for a minute. “Those assholes should’ve taken care of you.” He finally said softly.

Bass laughed a little, though nothing was funny. “That’s not really their thing.”

“Which is why I hate that you were drinking with them.” Miles still had that weird look on his face and something clicked in Bass’s brain.

“Miles, are you _jealous_?” He asked with a little laugh, a real one this time.

“What? No.” But he totally was, and now Bass knew it was true because he knew what it looked like when Miles lied.

“You’re jealous that I went drinking with those guys instead of you!” Bass crowed.

“I’m not—it’s just that you—I just mean…” Miles didn’t normally sputter and Bass was loving every second of his discomfort. He hooted with laughter. After a second, he regained seriousness.

“Miles, you really don’t have to be jealous.” He said.

“Ugh, shut up, Bass.” Miles turned to walk away, his face all annoyed and mopey.

“Miles, really, though.” Bass held up his arm. “What did I fucking get tattooed on my arm? I get shitfaced and get a tattoo and it’s our little M thing? Come on.”

Miles stopped. “True.” He conceded. “Why _did_ you choose that?” He asked, laughing again now that Bass wasn’t making fun of him anymore.

Bass groaned. “Um, did I mention I was really, really drunk?” Miles gave him a look. “Because I was drunk and you weren’t there and I…” Bass squinched his face up. “I fucking missed you, okay?” He finally got out. “Eight days? Have I ever in my whole life not seen you for eight days? And yeah, I know, I’m like a needy teenage girl or something but…shit, man.” Bass rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He had to tack the “man” on at the end to try to make things less serious. He and Miles had had more deep conversations in the month since he’d lost his family than they’d probably had in their whole lives.

Miles was quiet for a minute. “You want to know how I kept pissing off the CO?”

“How?”

“I kept saying what you’d think of everything that was happening if you were there.” Miles didn’t look at him when he said it, which was how Bass knew Miles had really, really missed him too. Bass laughed.

“What?”

“Yeah, like he’d give an order and I’d say, you know, oh man, if Bass were here he’d be laughing so hard, Bass would hate doing pushups right now, Bass would…whatever.” Miles shrugged and Bass found himself more touched than he’d expected.

“Miles, that’s…you were talking back to the CO?”

Miles shrugged again. “Yeah, well, you do it all the time. I didn’t want…him…to miss you too bad.”

Bass couldn’t help it—he grabbed Miles in a headlock, which was as close to hugging as Miles was comfortable with in the daylight barring serious emotional trauma or near-death experiences. Bass could’ve probably gotten away with a hug; Miles had been letting him get away with anything and everything for the last month. Bass did, in fact, talk back to the CO more than was healthy. He was constantly being punished for it. Miles, however, did not talk back. Bass let go of Miles and they went to the living room to watch TV, even though they’d just flip through all the channels and complain that there was nothing on.

“So, should we go back for yours?” Bass teased, holding out his arm.

“Like hell.” Miles hated needles. He was not _afraid_ of them. He just didn’t like them.

“It’s only fitting.” Bass mused. “You missed me.”

“Shut up.”

“Then, even if people don’t know our names, they’ll know they’re not allowed to talk to me because you’ll get jealous.”

“Shut _up_.”

“You’re so _possessive_.” Bass pretended to be wounded. “I can’t even have _friends_ anymore.”

The tips of Miles’s ears were turning red. “Bass, I am going to punch you.”

“I can’t believe you would threaten me after I got myself _branded_ for you.”

“ _Sebastian_. Stop.”

“Full name? Wow. I am in trouble.” Bass couldn’t stop laughing. It was borderline hysterical, because he was just sort of always hysterical these days, but it felt good to laugh. Teasing Miles always made him feel better. But he could tell he was on the edge of going too far, so he relented.

“So, Sergeant Matheson, a tiny question.”

Miles glared, thinking he was still playing his little lovers’ spat game. “What.” He didn’t make it a question, just to show his utter annoyance.

“Were you _trying_ to kill me by leaving a peach in your room last time we were here?” Miles laughed in sudden recognition.

“Oh, shit.”

“You might want to open your window.” Bass advised. “There is also something waiting for you in the fridge.” Mile’s face lit up, thinking it was something good. Bass was not surprised when a shriveled grape—really, basically a raisin at this point—hit him in the side of the face. He laughed riotously and threw it back at Miles. Overall, Bass did not regret his tattoo.


End file.
